Beyond the Storm (9780758276995) (2 page)

“My dearest Venture . . .”

B
lack clouds chased him, threatening him with the promise of its torrential downpour. Sure, he was under protective cover, of sorts, behind the wheel of his rental car, but on this lonely stretch of narrow road, such a fact gave him scarce comfort. Ever since that freak incident on a warm, childhood day, when a dangerous thunderstorm had wreaked havoc on his neighborhood and the high winds had flipped over his swing set and a startling lightning strike had hit a tree, sending it into the house next door to where he lived and claimed the life of his neighbor, wobbly old Mrs. Woodson, he'd hated these sudden summer storms. Now it looked like another storm had come for him after all these years, taunting him, as though it knew his inner fears and was determined to unleash them, much like the rains from its heavy clouds.

His blue eyes hit the digital clock on the dashboard of his white Chevy Malibu: 3:58 in the afternoon. Still another hour or so before he reached his destination, and even still, he'd left little room for delays if he wanted to arrive on time. Pulling to the side of the road to wait out a passing thunderstorm was not on his agenda, nor was the idea of driving through one. Kind of put him between a rock and a hard place.

“Maybe it will blow past,” he said to the otherwise empty car.

A booming crack of thunder let him know his wish was just that. As life experiences had taught him, those dreamed-upon thoughts tended not to come true all that often. Still, at least the rain's intensity hadn't begun yet, just a few drops. The road was still dry, and the cruising car sped forward.

What he also noticed on this winding road was that there seemed to be very little in the way of other traffic; he couldn't remember when he'd last seen another car. Such were these old roads up here, they didn't seem to go anywhere until suddenly they did, civilization rearing up over an unexpected twist. His foot pressed on the accelerator and his body felt the Malibu surge as it hugged a long, bending curve. He flicked on his headlights for safety's sake; didn't they say headlights during the day were so other drivers could see you, not to help you see? An accident he'd suffered a few years ago had knocked up his insurance rates and required him to retake a defensive driving course. Some of those lessons remained engrained in his brain.

Age thirty-eight, his dark hair artfully messy, six foot Adam Blackburn had only ever been in that one traffic accident and he'd never received a speeding ticket. Just a simple rear-ending up in Maine one summer vacation with a short-term girlfriend long since gone, both totally his fault. His driving record at least was certainly better than his dating one. Of course, he spent most of his commuting days aboard public transportation, so his ratio of run-ins with law enforcement and actual driving was considerably reduced than those who lived in the suburbs. A city dweller since leaving college, Adam had rented the car for the coming occasion, his reason for being on this seemingly deserted stretch of road stuck in the middle of nowhere. If you're traveling from New York City to a small village in upper Monroe County, situated somewhere between Buffalo and Rochester, at some point you'll have to get a car, and so rather than fly, then drive, he'd opted to splurge on a pricey rental from Manhattan. He'd left the busy city limits this nineteenth day of August around ten o'clock, planning for an eight-hour drive. The event tonight was scheduled to start at eight, which would give him plenty of time to check into his hotel, rest, and maybe have a pre-reunion cocktail before heading over to the school auditorium. That is, if he was able to beat out this looming storm.

Another crack of thunder, preceded by a visible streak of lightning that illuminated the sky as seen through his rearview mirror. The storm was getting closer, no matter the extra burst of speed he gave the car's engine; it was coming for him. Just then the rain began, large droplets hitting his windshield like pale, splattered bugs. He switched on the wipers and opened the vents to allow the blast of air-conditioning to assist in clearing the windows of sudden encroaching condensation. He also paused his iPod, music having kept him company during the long ride. Coldplay's “Clocks” faded, silence grew. Time to concentrate.

More thunder, more lightning.

Adam wiped a cool bead of sweat from his brow. Christ, it was just Mother Nature doing what she did best, so why worry? There was nothing to fear except some lingering memories, fears, from when he was seven years old. But heck, his parents had just trashed the entire swing set during cleanup the next day—and they'd never replaced it. And they'd left him home when they attended the funeral service for Mrs. Woodson. An impressionable boy who liked to hang upside down on the monkey bars and see the world his way tended not to forget such an indelible moment. How often had Mrs. Woodson gazed at him with a dour expression on her face, asking him why he wanted to contort his body like that? Why not, he'd always answered her. Then one day both were gone, the monkey bars and Mrs. Woodson. Always the storm's fault. Yes, Adam Blackburn had an issue with storms. They took things, people.

Glancing into the rearview mirror again, he caught sight of his own expression. He was no longer that young boy, not with his strong jaw, scruffy, darkened cheeks, and thick eyebrows. Yet hidden inside his soft blue eyes were those same inner fears of nature's fury, of the havoc it could create. Taking one last, lingering look at himself, he gauged the growing worry lines on his forehead; was that just a natural furrowing, or had he missed out on the fact he'd aged the last few, troubled months?

The force of the falling rainfall increased, decreasing his visibility. Adam looked out his window to see which direction the storm might be going, hoping it would shift away from him, but then a pair of headlights fast approaching from behind momentarily blinded him. The idiot behind him was not only riding his trunk, but he stupidly had turned his high beams on. Adam instinctively slowed down, an effort that caused the driver behind him to sit on his horn.

“Christ, have you noticed that it's raining?” Adam asked aloud.

Just then the driver behind him gunned his engine, and the speedy red car, a Mustang, pulled out into the lane beside him, the lane that just happened to favor opposing traffic, and there was no broken yellow line. Fear gripping him, Adam took a quick, nervous look ahead, but thankfully there appeared to be no cars coming their way. He watched as the sports car zoomed past him. He wiped at his driver's side window just in time to see the guy flip him the bird.

“I should have flown,” Adam said.

Thunder boomed again, producing a near-deafening echo that practically shook the sky's low-hanging ceiling. He imagined himself up in these treacherous, daunting skies, the plane bouncing around as they descended through the clouds, and then changed his mind again about flying. He revised his thoughts once again.

“I should have stayed home.”

Staying home, a nice idea. Actually, that had been his initial instinct when the e-mail invitation had popped up in his in-box with the subject line reading:
20th High School Reunion
. He'd barely given that awful time of his life much thought since graduation, and now here it was, somehow, all these years later, with an offer to regroup, reflect, gather to see who had succeeded, who'd gotten fat, who'd remained behind in town, and who had died. Sad, really, to think of his fellow Danton Hill High graduates being defined by the same labels in which they'd entered ninth grade. Did twenty years really represent enough time gone by for all those petty feelings about the teenagers you spent your formative years with to go away? People change, right?

The dual, dueling facts that Adam had enjoyed a modicum of success in life and had decided to attend the reunion kind of answered that one. You always wanted to show off to those who thought you'd never amount to anything.

Nope. Not enough time.

But time was something flexible, bendable. It was why some days seemed to linger longer than others.

He chastised himself, enough with metaphysical things. Forget about tonight and all that it might bring, just for a second. Concentrate on the road.

If memory served him well, there was a turnoff coming up and he didn't want to miss it. Why hadn't he taken the GPS option the rental agent had suggested? Because he was going somewhere he was familiar with, that was why, a place he'd once called home. He imagined he could drive these once-familiar roads in his sleep. This wasn't sleep, this was a thunderstorm.

The blackened sky looked like night's shroud; the heavy clouds seemed to be descending upon him even more, like the sky could no longer support the weight of all that rain. He felt buried inside the car. His visibility grew even more limited. At least there was no sign of that red sports car, one less bad driver to distract him. Adam looked back in the rearview mirror once more, comforted to see he once again had the road to himself. He slowed even more, the mph gauge dropping to forty. He felt the car dip and realized he'd started going downhill. The torrents of rainwater followed after him, chasing him, gurgling beneath his tires. Last thing he wanted to do was hydroplane and slide into the rolling cornfields that ran parallel to the road.

He reduced his speed further. That's when he suddenly saw the yellow sign indicating the turnoff road approaching, just ten feet ahead. Despite his decreased speed, he still hadn't given himself enough time to make the turn without the possibility of careening into a ditch. So he continued on, looking for a place where he could safely turn around. As the road that led toward the village of Danton Hill passed him by, Adam stole a look at the roadside in an effort to remember an identifying marker for when he made his return approach. He didn't want to miss the road to home again.

Lights flashed in his eyes.

Was that lightning again, a streak striking the ground close to him? No, the glare wasn't followed by any crack of thunder; it wasn't nature's doing. In fact, the harsh light was insistent, not going away. They were coming right at him.

“Get out of my lane, get the fu . . .”

But he was overreacting, wasn't he? The road was simply curving. The other car wasn't in his lane, and he certainly wasn't in its lane. Swallow the paranoia, it was just oncoming traffic, and that was to be expected on a county road that eventually led to a populated town such as Danton Hill. Really, he was going to drown in this anxiety if he didn't compose himself. His nerves were making the situation worse. Just drive, find a place to turn around, and then get back on track . . .

The reunion awaited him.

But the headlights were still coming at him.

He instinctively turned the wheel, his foot applying the brakes. Okay, bad move. That's not what they had taught him in that defensive driving course. The other car swung around, and that's when Adam saw the blinding headlights swing directly into his path. He found himself holding his breath. He had no choice but to brace for impact.

 

For the entire ride backward in time, toward her childhood stomping grounds of Danton Hill, her mind played with one recurring thought about the reunion: What was she thinking? Hadn't she purposely left this town and this life long ago, vowing never to return to its shores? There were memories here, sure, many of them she would prefer to forget. But there were old friends too, and given all that had happened with her since graduation day, maybe the time had come to look upon her former life with wizened, wisdom-filled eyes. Also, and this was the real truth, there was unfinished business to attend to. Would he be there? Wait, stop, correct that, she said, the inflection all wrong. Will
He
be there. In her mind she saw that capital
H,
the italics . . .
Him
.

She'd never really forgotten him.

Her heart had; it had felt others, loved others. But not her soul. Souls were mysteries.

Something harkened at her. Brought her back here.

She pushed back her shoulder-length dark hair, opening up her weary, still beautiful face.

Twenty years had somehow slipped by, and that was how long it had been since they'd seen each other . . . well, that wasn't entirely true, there was that one dumb night, an improbable chance encounter eleven or twelve years ago, and . . . well, she put that moment right out of her mind, that entire episode was self-contained, barely worth remembering, but unforgettable nonetheless. Still, it wasn't that she ever expected to get a call or a postcard, an e-mail, a text . . . anything from him. They didn't have that kind of relationship now and they never had. In fact, barring that one crazy week at the end of high school, they barely knew anything about each other, their hopes or their fears or their wishes for the future as much strangers as themselves. No, that wasn't right either, because of course they had talked, that one night, about the future. It's what had bonded them, a burning desire to get out from under the thumb of this town's handprint. Which was why they had gone their separate ways . . . never expecting another thing from the other. They had made no promises. God, I'm a mess, she thought. A walking conundrum.

That would change tonight.

“You hope,” she said.

Or did she?

She was alone in the car, and so the running commentary she was having inside her mind really needn't slip out from her mouth, but yet that last comment had. Giving voice to such an inner thought, she had to question just what she really expected from this upcoming reunion. Why was she even going? She'd long ago left behind all her friends, Jana and Tiffany, all of the pointless, useless accolades the school had afforded her—honor society, cheerleader, treasurer of her senior class. Even then, joining those various activities had been laced with subtext, building a résumé of impressive credits that would help her move forward, always forward. She wasn't a “live in the moment” kind of a girl, not then, not now either, and the past . . . well, the past you couldn't change. Even as a kid she had looked to the future: whom she would meet, marry, have children with, what those children would be like. Her career would not define her; she would be well-rounded, ideal. Perfect.